Carpe Diem in Suburban London

When I wake and the sun is shining
My spirits leap.
Turning,  I watch your chest gently rising and falling
And I am glad, so glad that you will be here
To share this precious day. 

The dawn has broken and the birds flit from bush to tree
Finding a perch high up from which
To announce their presence and welcome
The fact that they are alive. 
“My territory,” they announce, “My family; my food.”
I cannot blame them,
Where not to fight for the right to survive
Means certain death. 
I watched last year how the new blue-tit parents
Failed to provide 
And all nine chicks lost their lives. 

But I am human and English and comfortable 
And on Saturday mornings the whole world is mine 
For an hour or maybe more. 
Quietly I slip from the bed and into a gown,
Creeping downstairs to boil the kettle
And look out on the garden,
Which has grown while I was not looking. 
Sitting at the table next to the garden door,
I luxuriate in the early gentle sunlight
And the bird song and the peace
And the fact that there is not yet traffic. 
A woody scent emanates from the earth
As the dew evaporates with the growing warmth. 
I hear a plop and a frog returns to the
Tiny kidney-shaped pond next to the pear tree. 
And I think of England – as did Shelley- except I am here.

I have another 45 minutes, surely. 
As the sun rises and the bird song diminishes
On my little patch of paradise
I still think of England. 
I think of my early morning England. 
But the noise of traffic increases as does the dust in the air
And it becomes city dry 
Taking on that acrid brightness that is city.
My vision freezes and becomes another England. 
The heat is increasing but I pull my gown closer
And shiver at the prospect,
My tea now cool in the mug. 
One neighbour has decided to spray insecticide
Early, while it is cool – and another to trim the edges. 
At the back, the children have woken
They wail in an argument over the iPad. 
The cacophony of what is England now 
Breaks on my consciousness. 
England – fair England –
Eaten up by diesel fumes and thoughtlessness. 

I hear you stir.
I am so glad you will be here with me,
For a while longer.
The one constant in a changing and polluting world
That I still want to hold dear. 

I will take you up a morning cuppa. 

Photo and poem copyright Englepip©

I apologise if you have read this before under a different name. I have made revisions and the title has changed as has the photo.

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Lichen

Satellite dishes; fairy proportions
Growing in bunches just like mistletoe.

Spreading on branches; shapes ever changing
Fruticose beings of many a hue.

Mutualistic or parasitic;
Not plant; not fungus; a freak of the world
An ancient species long lived and thriving?
Better than humans pollution they’ll find.
Found in abundance, throughout all the world
On branch; on stone; on building or playground

Alien species? Where did they come from?
Keeping their watch from wherever they sit.
Brooding; plotting to take over our world?
Look out behind then; they’re growing near you.

Poem and photo by Englepip© copyright

Lichen are some of the strangest growing things in the world. The oldest in the Arctic is said to be about 8600 years old, the world’s oldest organism, and they probably grow only 1mm a year, depending where they are. They come in many different shapes and forms and even change their shapes and colours as they grow. The more I read about them, the more ubiquitous I realised they were and I began to imagine them lurking and waiting to take their turn in taking over the world! Terrifying.

The following words about lichens are from Wikipedia. “Many lichens are very sensitive to environmental disturbances and can be used to cheaply^[8] assess air pollution,^[47][48][49] ozone depletion, and metal contamination. Lichens have been used in making dyes, perfumes,^[50] and in traditional medicines. A few lichen species are eaten by insects^[8] or larger animals, such as reindeer.^[51] Lichens are widely used as environmental indicators or bio-indicators. If air is very badly polluted with sulphur dioxide there may be no lichens present, just green algae may be found. If the air is clean, shrubby, hairy and leafy lichens become abundant. A few lichen species can tolerate quite high levels of pollution and are commonly found on pavements, walls and tree bark in urban areas. The most sensitive lichens are shrubby and leafy while the most tolerant lichens are all crusty in appearance. Since industrialisation many of the shrubby and leafy lichens such as Ramalina, Usnea and Lobaria species have very limited ranges, often being confined to the parts with the purest air.”

Such an interesting organism.

A Spider’s Gift

Web of reflections. If you look carefully you will see how each dewdrop reflects the sunset.

Web on a fence
Blowing in the wind
Silk stronger than steel
But lightest of gossamer

A gift freely given
Labour of love and necessity
Patience exemplified
Pattern repeated again and again

Trap for the unwary
Dinner-plate of necessity
Yet no utilitarian structure
Instead beauty epitomised

An arachnid wheel
Softly gathering dew drops
And glistening in the sunlight
Sparkling diamonds; what a sight!

Poem and photo copyright to Englepip©

Frozen Forest

A sudden chill
And Autumn turns to winter
Overnight.

Leaves that have clung
Through Autumn gales
Now frozen on each bough
Cling tentatively 
Before succumbing to the chill
And falling one by one
By one.

The freezing fog lies
Long into the day,
Mist throughout the 
Forest rests
On bracken fronds beneath
Turning them ice-white frosty.

It is as though time has stopped
And nature has withdrawn
To think about its future, 
Giving the world 
A much needed 
Breathing space.

Poem and photo copyright Englepip©

Shelley, this is England

When I wake early to a summer’s morn

My spirits, leap.

Turning,  I watch your chest gently rising and falling

And I am glad, so glad that you will be here

To share this day.

The dawn has broken and the birds flit from bush to tree

Finding a perch high up from which

To announce their presence and welcome

The fact that they are alive.

My territory they announce; my family; my food.

I cannot blame them, for them,

Not to fight for the right

To survive; means certain death.

I watched last year how the  blue-tit parents failed to provide

And all nine chicks lost their lives.

But I am human and English and comfortable

And on Saturday mornings the whole world is mine

For an hour or maybe two.

Quietly I slip from the bed and into a gown,

Creeping downstairs to boil the kettle

And look out at the garden which has grown while I was not looking.

Sitting at the table next to the patio door

I luxuriate in the pale dawn light; 

the bird song and the peace

And the fact that there is not yet traffic.

A woody scent emanates from the earth

As the dew evaporates with the growing warmth.

I hear a plop as a frog returns to the tiny  pond next to the pear tree.

And I think of England – as did Shelley- except I am here already.

I have another forty-five minutes, surely.

The sun rises and the bird song diminishes on my little patch of paradise

And still I think of England, my early morning England.

But as the noise of planes and traffic increases,

So does the dust in the air which becomes city dry

Taking on that acrid brightness that is brittle;

And though the heat is increasing,  I pull my gown closer and shiver

At the prospect of  a Saturday in England, in the twenty-first century.

My tea is cool now in the mug.

One neighbour has decided to spray insecticide early,

While it is cool and he thinks no one will notice.

 At the back, the children have woken and wail in an argument over an iPad.

And then the DIYers…….and the traffic!

The cacophony of what is England now, today.

England – fair England – eaten up by diesel fumes and thoughtlessness,

I hear you stir.

And I am so glad that you will be here with me,

To calm and shield me in the chaos that is life;

My constant in a changing and polluting world that

I would hold dear,  but fear cannot survive this way.

I will take you up a cup of tea.

Photo and words copyright Englepip©

Cloaked in darkness

We drew up the boats at the water’s edge as the sun plummeted towards the horizon. Just in time for a campfire; and facing west, a chance to watch the setting sun turn the whole of the western reaches burnt orange and golden. Drink in hand, we watched in awe as darkness descended and a chill grew across the water.  Listening intently as the noises of the day dropped one by one, the intensity of the night-time sounds grew greater; grunts and barks of wildlife echoed and there was the occasional screeching of a female tawny owl. And then we heard it, the plop and plunge of paddles slicing the calm waters as two canoes swished past, rippling through the water in the dying light; making their way homeward, secretively, cloaked of darkness.

Photo copyright Englepip ©

via Daily Prompt: Cloaked

Daily Prompt: The focused butterfly

Original photograph by Englepip© 

Sometimes my attention wanders

And I look out of the window

And daydream

Of the summer sun and butterflies.

They, like my mind, go wandering,

Fluttering from leaf to flower

Or word to thought

From sky to plant,

Or dream to reality.

And this brings me back to

Focus on the very thing

Which sent me rambling in the first place:

The butterfly.

And as I watch its solid concentration and focus

On the things that really matter,

I realise I have too much,

Too much irrelevance in my life;

But if I focus

And make the most of every moment

Like the butterfly,

Seeking only the best for my mind, my body

My spirit and my heart

I will too will find happiness

And focus.

 

Worth a thought?

 

via Daily Prompt: Focused

Autumn

Photographic images by Englepip Copyright ©

At first the Autumn creeps almost unseen

As leaves become duller, a little less green

Then suddenly out of the sky come the winds

First breezy, then blowy and then in a spin

That whirls and screeches and roars through the night

Bringing rain pellets from a huge height

‘Til, like stones, they drop on the waning flowers

And tumble the blossoms down with their might.

 

But the sun comes out and all is fair

Yet there’s a new coolness in the air.

Next the leaves change to a beautiful hue

Traffic light colours in the park to view

The squirrels run jumping canopy high

Gathering nuts – they know winter is nigh,

While down on the ground the hedgehogs are seeking

A  sheltered bed for their long, winter sleeping.

 

And then we awake to the first full frost

The puddles are glassy, the flowers are lost.

 

And overnight the trees are made bare

The ground like a stone  and the daylight has gone

The temperature plummets to minus figures

And  the full force of Arctic winds is bitter

For Autumn has ended, and winter has hit us.